Assassin's Express

by Jerry Ahern

“You’ve been dreaming,” the one-eyed man told her, smiling down at her head on his shoulder.

  “What’s up—?”

  “O’Hara’s back. He’s even smiling. Let’s go see him—huh?”

  Frost started to his feet, the girl standing up beside him and stretching like a lazy cat. As he snatched up his pack, he felt her hand on his arm. “Frost—let’s run. We don’t need O’Hara. We don’t—”

  “It’ll be all right,” Frost reassured her. “Come on.” Holding the girl by her right hand, Frost led her out of the trees and back across the open field. O’Hara spotted them; the lean, lantern-jawed FBI man waved. O’Hara was in his early or middle forties, Frost recalled. He wondered what the man had been like in his twenties—the thought almost scared Frost.

  “Comin’ O’Hara,” Frost shouted across the muddy track; O’Hara nodded back and leaned against the right front fender of the FOUO car.

  “Hank—are you sure we can—?”

  “Yeah. O’Hara’s straight. Listen—it’s O.K.,” Frost told her again. They were almost within earshot of O’Hara now.

  In order to help the girl over a deadfall tree that someone apparently had dragged into the field, Frost shifted his pack a little in his right hand, then climbed the low grade up to where O’Hara was parked. Frost judged the air temperature to be in the mid-fifties at least—the thought of that Arcticlike blizzard the previous night still amazed him. They stopped beside the car, Frost setting the pack on the trunk lid.

  “Well, well—glad you waited, Frost—really proud of you.”

  Frost looked at O’Hara, saying nothing.

  “When I was following Chevasnik and Gorn in from Dallas the word was that Jessica Pace was an assassin—right?”

  “Yeah.” Frost nodded.

  “Well—I called Calvin Plummer. Took me some time to get through to him. Found out I don’t even have the right security clearance to talk to him. I never liked Plummer much from what I heard about him. Finally got to talk with him, anyway. I like the guy even less now—he’s a creep, with a capitol K. But he’s one of the biggees, good friend of the President, the whole nine yards.”

  “So—what’d he say,” Frost persisted.

  “Well—funny thing. He told me to do something I didn’t want to do and I lost my temper—told him to go to hell. You know, in some states using profanity over a telephone system when a female operator might possibly be listening in can get you tossed in the slam.”

  “Wonderful—what’d he say?” Frost asked again, feeling edgy.

  “Well—” Suddenly O’Hara’s hands were moving, the little Model 60 Smith O’Hara carried in an ankle holster appearing magically out of the sleeve of his windbreaker. Frost started moving for his gun, but O’Hara snapped, “Don’t, Frost—I don’t wanna smoke ya, but I will.”

  Frost eased his hands down to his sides, feeling Jessica Pace more than seeing her as she tensed beside him. “What’d he say, O’Hara?”

  “Well—Calvin Plummer gave me a direct order—actually I didn’t tell him to go to hell; I told him where he could stick his direct order. Told me to kill you, put the girl on ice some place quiet, and call in for further orders.” O’Hara snapped back the hammer on the little stainless-steel Chief’s Special, the muzzle of the snubby gun pointing straight out at Frost’s head.

  “You gonna do it?”

  “Not unless I gotta, buddy—no. I’m a cop, not a lousy hit man. Now—do the acrobat number against the car. You’ve been frisked before, Frost.”

  “No,” Frost said emotionlessly.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “What else did Plummer say?”

  “Said she was an assassin and that if I apprehended her I’d get a big promotion.”

  “Is that why you have the gun out?” Frost asked.

  “No—what the hell do I need with a promotion? I’m just doin’ my job and arresting a pair of suspects. But I’ll kill ya if I gotta, Ace!”

  “I know you will,” Frost said quietly. “I wouldn’t expect you to do anything else. I’m telling you that as far as I understand, this woman is working for Plummer. Maybe Plummer gave you some kind of cover story because your security clearance wasn’t high enough; maybe he figures 1’m more trouble than I’m worth and the operation is better off with me dead. I don’t know why he told you what he told you.”

  “You believe this routine?”

  “Yeah,” Frost insisted.

  “I don’t. Personally, I think you’re a dupe of the Commies—they don’t call ’em old maestros of deceivin’ people for nothin’. They got you thinkin’ you’re doin’ this all for Old Glory and Mom’s apple pie. Well, listen, I’ll go to bat for you at the trial.”

  “You arrest me, there won’t be any trial. Plummer will have me killed, probably have you killed, then get Jessica to Washington to spill her list just like she’s supposed to.”

  “Bullshit—Plummer may be some kind of superspook, but he can’t run around knockin’ people off—especially a fed.” O’Hara jerked his left thum back toward his chest.

  “You know,” Frost smiled, “thanks for reminding me you’re a fed.” Frost took a fast step toward O’Hara, keeping his hands in the open and not moving for his gun. O’Hara did just what Frost thought he would—backstepped fast, snapped the muzzle of the Chief’s Special up into the air and fired a warning shot. Frost dove into him, Frost’s right shoulder impacting into O’Hara’s gut; the revolver firing again as Frost and O’Hara went down into the mud.

  Frost’s left fist drove up and right, crossing O’Hara’s chin; the FBI man’s head snapped back, Frost’s right hand vised around O’Hara’s gun-hand wrist. Frost felt something hammering into his stomach, rolled left, and dragged O’Hara’s gun hand with him. Frost’s left knee smashed up into O’Hara’s right elbow; the gun fell from O’Hara’s hand into the mud. Frost rolled over the gun, onto his knees, then up on his feet.

  O’Hara was climbing up out of the mud. “You wanna finish this with hands, Ace—or do you and me play quick-draw with the shoulder rigs?”

  Frost watched O’Hara rubbing his right elbow. “I break the elbow?”

  “Naw—but you made the old college try with it.”

  “Hands.” Frost smiled. Inside him, Frost wasn’t about to shoot at O’Hara no matter what happened and he realized O’Hara felt the same—the thing in Canada where they’d fought the terrorists together, been shot up together . . . O’Hara had even saved Frost’s life, too. 1

  “O.K.—hands. Let’s do, Frost—”

  O’Hara started across the two yards of muddy ground separating them in a dead rush, both arms extended for Frost’s throat. Frost sidestepped, his right foot flashing up and out as he wheeled half-left. Too late, Frost realized O’Hara had suckered him, had known that with a high attack Frost would come in with a low counterattack. Frost felt O’Hara’s hands on his ankle, felt himself losing his balance and went down hard into the mud, feeling something—O’Hara’s foot, Frost guessed—hammering into his left rib cage. Frost rolled left, edging back across the mud, climbing to his feet. O’Hara was grinning ear to ear. “Score one for the good guys, Ace!”

  Frost started for O’Hara, planning to sucker O’Hara the way the FBI man had suckered him. Out of the corner of his eye, Frost could see Jessica Pace, the silenced Walther .38 in her right hand, the gun coming on line. Frost sidestepped, shouting to her, “No!” He dove for her gun hand, knocking the pistol off line. The gun fired, its slide as it opened out of battery closing and hitting the palm of Frost’s right hand. Frost sucked in his breath hard against the pin; his left fist crossed his body at an awkward angle and punched into the girl’s right forearm. The gun fell from her hand to the ground. Frost wheeled, shoving her back onto her rear end in the mud, then wheeled again toward O’Hara, less than six feet from him, hands spread, his body in a half crouch, ready to continue the fight. “I owe you one, Frost—but I still gotta do what I gotta do.”

  Frost sidestepped, snatchi
ng up the Walther. O’Hara’s eyes froze for a minute on the gun. Frost tossed it through the half-open driver’s side window of the car, onto the seat. “O.K.?”

  “You’re a wonderful person.” O’Hara laughed, then came at Frost low. The one-eyed man half-wheeled, sidestepping, and, his back half-turned to O’Hara, his right fist hammered forward to straight-arm O’Hara on the left side of his face.

  The tall, lean FBI man crashed down like a tree. Frost dived onto him, his knees impacting against the FBI man’s stomach as he rolled away. While O’Hara started picking himself up, he got to his feet and edged back. “That,” O’Hara groaned, straightening up, “was a good one—I’ll remember it though so don’t try it again.”

  As O’Hara started to move, Frost feigned a low kick. When the FBI man reacted, Frost wheeled 360 degrees and hooked his left fist out toward O’Hara’s jaw; Frost’s knuckles almost screamed at him as he made the solid connection. The FBI man reeled. Frost stepped inside the sinking guard, his right streaking forward in a short jab to the solar plexus. O’Hara doubled over. Frost’s left crossed O’Hara’s jaw line; the knuckles were bleeding when Frost caught momentary sight of his hand.

  O’Hara was falling back; Frost shot another low, straight jab into his stomach. As O’Hara doubled over, half-dropping to his knees, the knife edge of Frost’s left hand flashed downward, catching O’Hara just behind the right ear. Frost stepped back; O’Hara crumpled to the ground.

  Frost turned around, O’Hara unconscious on the ground behind him. Frost could see Jessica Pace, the Walther PPK/S in her tiny fists, the muzzle on line with O’Hara’s head. “I pulled the chain on him—put the gun away.”

  Frost stepped between the woman and the unconscious O’Hara. “Hank—I’ll shoot you, too!”

  Frost, his breathing still labored, his left fist feeling like a toothache, rasped between gasps for air, “You shoot me, unless you get me between the eyes—which would be impossible,” and he tugged at his eye patch with his right hand, “I’ll get the Browning out and pump you full of it, kid—we don’t kill O’Hara!”

  “He’s with them—you can see that!”

  “Could have killed both of us a couple of times, couldn’t he? But he didn’t. For God’s sake, girl—think!” Frost started toward her, fumbling for a cigarette with his aching left hand.

  “He’ll come after us—then what?” Her voice was shrill, bordering on hysteria, Frost thought.

  “I’ll fix his guns so he can’t use ’em, we’ll steal his car—he won’t catch us, Jessica. Now put down the gun—now!”

  The woman edged back, the muzzle of the silencer unmoving. Frost watched her eyes. “You really got this loyalty trip pretty bad, don’t you?” she said, her voice finally sounding under control.

  “Yeah—maybe,” Frost told her. “Put the gun down!”

  Frost watched her moving her right thumb against the slide-mounted safety, then the gun lowered and she slipped it under her muddy sweater in front of her belly.

  “You’re crazy,” she said emotionlessly.

  Frost shrugged, turning his back on her, and walked over to O’Hara to check that the man was still breathing. Frost straightened him out on the ground, thumbed back his eyelids. “He should be out for about ten minutes or so—he’s gonna be O.K.”

  “I was worried a lot,” Frost heard the Pace woman say from behind him. Frost said nothing to her. He got up, walked back to the car, and got his pack, fishing in it until he found a small screwdriver ; then he walked back to O’Hara. Frost snatched up the muddy Model 60, then reached under O’Hara’s coat and grabbed the Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Model 29 .44 Magnum. He took the guns back to the car and opened the driver’s side door.

  “What are you doing?” Frost heard the girl ask.

  “I’m fixing his guns so he can’t. use them for a while.”

  “Why don’t you just take ’em and throw ’em in a trash can somewhere?”

  Frost looked at her, amazed. “You don’t steal a friend’s gun—boy!”

  “So what are you doing?”

  Frost emptied both revolvers and dropped the ammo into his jacket pocket; then with the cylinders still open, he picked up the model 60 and turned the gun over until the right side of the frame was under the screwdriver bit. He found the forwardmost screw, the one under the cylinder cut-out, and started turning it out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking out the crane lock screws on the guns. He won’t be able to use them until he finds replacement screws. If he fired them without the crane lock screws in place it’d be dangerous, maybe blow the cylinder out of the frame. All he’ll have to do is find a Smith & Wesson warrantee center or a ridiculously well-stocked gunsmith.”

  “Out here?” and she gestured to the barren countryside around them.

  Frost smiled, laughing, saying, “Yeah—out here—ha!”

  Frost did the same thing with the Metalifed N-frame .44, then dropped the screwd safely into the breast pocket of his jeans jacket.

  He put the partially disassembled guns on the ground beside O’Hara and turned back to Jessica Pace. “Keys in the car?”

  She leaned down, looking inside; then her head popped up over the roof line and she nodded, saying “Yeah.”

  “Let’s roll then!” Frost started toward the car, giving a last look at O’Hara—he was already stirring, starting to awaken. Frost almost envied him—at least the FBI man would be out of the thing for a while. Frost wished he were.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frost switched on the wiper blades, telling the girl beside him, “We gotta ditch this FOUO pretty quick—this is instant hot sheet.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Steal a car, I guess—since this is all in the name of good old Uncle Sam—I guess once I get you to Washington, the President ought to be able to cool a grand-theft-auto charge.”

  The girl laughed—it was, if not the first time, one of the few times he’d heard her laugh. “You relaxing a little bit?”

  “Yes. I guess you were right—about not killing your friend O’Hara.”

  “He’s a good guy—he was just doin’ his job.” Frost hit the wiper blades up to high speed. “I wish this rain would quit.”

  “It isn’t cold enough for it to turn to ice is it?”

  “No. When you were asleep,” he told her, “I had the radio on. There’s a chance of severe thunderstorms, but the temperature should stay in the high fifties, lower sixties—it was a Fort Worth station, so I guess we’re driving into warmer temperatures all the time.”

  “How long before we hit Dallas?” she asked him.

  “I guess about three hours—more or less,” Frost answered. “I’m gonna have to stop for gas again—maybe I can swap cars when I do.” Frost lit a cigarette, watching the rain, slowing his speed a little below fifty. “Why do you think Plummer told O’Hara you were an assassin?”

  “I think he didn’t trust O’Hara, figured maybe O’Hara was in on things with the double agents on the list. That’s why he told him to kill you and put me away, then call him—he would have probably sent his own people to get me and bring me in.”

  “None of Plummer’s people are involved in this, then?”

  “No—see, Plummer is technically part of the CIA, but it’s a separate agency, completely autonomous. He reports to the National Security Counsel and the President—that’s it. As far as I can understand it, some U.S. deep-cover agents have moled into the Soviet Union so well they’ve been operating for years. With Plummer being independent, changes in political administrations, in the CIA—none of that interrupts his operations.”

  “I still don’t see why, though, that he helped get out the story that you’re an assassin. Isn’t that—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “He’s just playing along with the idea—he may be in jeopardy, too. I don’t know about that. I think he was doing the only thing he could.”

  “Still, though,” Frost began, then gave u
p, shaking his head and leaning over to flick on the radio. The rain was slackening, but there was an ominous look to the sky off to his left.

  “... tornado alley for nothing. To repeat, this is a tornado warning for—”

  Frost turned up the volume on the radio, listened to a string of town names he didn’t recognize and county names—one stuck with him. He’d just seen a sign that they had entered it five miles back. “. . . with softball-sized hail reported—that wasn’t a mistake, softball, not golf ball. Hail and damaging winds—”

  “Why me?” Frost groaned, looking skyward through the windshield.

  “What are you talking about?” Jessica Pace asked him.

  “I was just wondering why all this kinky weather has to come down on me—and right now. Why?”

  “Well, the climate does seem to be changing, you know.”

  Frost just looked at her as he listened to the radio announcer recite the litany of what you were supposed to do in the event you sighted a funnel cloud. He left the radio on, heard the weather bulletin repreated, then breathed a sigh of relief when the music came back on. He knew the tornadoes were out there, knew what to do if he sighted one, but being constantly reminded to expect one wasn’t something he enjoyed. He started looking for a gas station; it was time to get rid of the car. He glanced down at the ashtray and smiled. It had been full for at least an hour.

  There was a large service station just off the road on his right. A clearly marked exit ramp looked as though it led right to it. Frost, glancing behind him in the rear-view and almost shocked not to find a trailer there, started edging over right, his directional on. He eased up on the gas, braking a little to dispel any moisture on the brakes before he actually needed them. He was tired, he realized, having driven through the night after they’d taken the car from O’Hara. Frost was somewhat grateful for the rotten weather—it was keeping the police so busy they hadn’t had time to find him with the stolen car. Frost stopped at the Yield sign. The rain was still so heavy that he had a hard time seeing through it any great distance and the FOUO car had poor defrosters unless the temperature was turned up all the way. When Frost had tried that he had felt as if he were suffocating.